Thursday afternoon, my brother and I went to a particular apartment complex to have a look at a particular apartment. We filled out some applications, picked out the floorplan we wanted, then spoke with the manager about which units would be coming open in the next few weeks.
The whole visit was futile. After speaking with her for half an hour, I still wasn’t sure exactly when we’d be able to walk through the apartments that would be coming open–but it definitely wouldn’t be for another two weeks or so. I asked whether any of the soon-to-be-open apartments had cats or smokers, because I don’t want any trace of either in my living space. She knew that one unit did have a cat in it, and that they might replace the carpet. She couldn’t (or wouldn’t) tell us whether the rest of the available units had cats or smokers in them. This was somewhat frustrating, but tolerable.
Then came the kicker: she asked for a two hundred dollar deposit. My brother asked when we’d get it back. She said, “You have forty-eight hours after we approve your credit to cancel your rental application.”
Two days to cancel our rental application and recover the $200, and the earliest we could even see the apartment—never mind sign a lease and move in—was still two weeks away? My brother suggested that this might be a little bit unfair.
The manager’s response was that since they were “taking the unit off the market” by accepting our application, they were justified in keeping the $200 deposit if we decided not to move in. After all, they’d have to turn away other applicants, right? But that was nonsense:
• If other people showed up looking for an apartment after we reserved but before we signed a lease or moved in, she could easily accept their applications and put them on a waiting list (and I’m sure this apartment complex already maintains a waiting list). If we decided not to move in, she could call them right up and take their $200—after giving ours back.
• If no such people showed up, then it wouldn’t have mattered that we took it off the market—there was no market. There was nobody to turn away. After returning our money, the complex would end up with the same zero dollars they would have had if we’d never shown up in the first place.
In short, this was just a scam to get an extra two hundred bucks. If we had forked over the $200, found out during the walk-through that the apartment had had a cat, a smoker, a smoking cat and a cat-smoker in it, and then the manager refused to change the carpet or make any other repairs, then we’d lose the deposit and would be stuck in a bad lease.
Needless to say, she didn’t get the money, and won’t get our business.
Friday was by far the worst day of the new school year. I left my contacts and my glasses at home, which resulted in a headache that got worse and worse throughout the day. I am near-sighted, so I could read whatever was right in front of me, but my students looked fuzzier and fuzzier the further back they sat. Maybe that’s a good thing. I couldn’t concentrate on anything, babbled incoherently, and was totally useless.
And that was before going out for milk and cookies after school with some coworkers. We went back to the same place as before, started to have a good time chit-chatting and rumor-mongering… and then she showed up.
With the same glittering Tri-Delt pin on her blouse.
And the same makeup caked on her face.
And the same grating voice, blithering away, imparting her unwanted wisdom in besotted breath.
It was The Magpie.
Our group of about twelve sat at a long table (actually four or five square ones pushed together). When Magpie would start talking to someone at one end of the table, the rest of us would slowly creep away. So Magpie would be alone with her victim at her end, and the rest of us would stand in a large group at the safe end, with several empty chairs in between. Then she’d come to the populated end, and the migration would begin again, but in the opposite direction.
I’m sure it was an amusing visual, and I’d love to have sped-up overhead footage of said migration. But if the Magpie keeps ruining otherwise perfectly good times, I’ll once again have to take my business elsewhere. Or maybe tell her about some other restaurant where other Paxon teachers hang out on Friday afternoons. Better yet, I’ll tell her where Stanton teachers hang out.
For me, the worst time of any week is 10:31 AM on Saturday. The time is not random; what is the reason?
7 Responses to “A bad ending to the week.”
- twink Says:
August 28th, 2006 at 12:26 PM
Must when Sophie wakes up. Either that or wrestling’s on.
- aabrock Says:
August 28th, 2006 at 7:19 PM
You can no longer order from the breakfast menu at your favorite fast food restaurant?
- roxuresox Says:
August 29th, 2006 at 7:42 PM
going to have that procedure done?
Chik-Fil-A stops serving breakfast for the week, and I can’t get a chicken biscuit again until Monday. It’s far worse than 10:31 at McGaggle’s on a Saturday.
- roxuresox Says:
September 4th, 2006 at 8:23 PM
that is pretty harsh, shame im never awake before then else id hit up the one on campus
- Doctor Hmnahmna Says:
September 16th, 2006 at 4:22 PM
Mrs. Hmnahmna thinks you’re a wuss over the Chik-Fil-A breakfast. More accurately, she says you’re acting like a girl
I can’t see how being pissed that I can’t get a Chik-Fil-A chicken biscuit makes me a wuss, but I can see how taking dictation from her makes you one.